Who| Clara and AlexWhat| Alex is dying and there isn't anything Clara can do to about it.Where| The abandoned houseWhen| Beginning of Week ThreeWarnings/Notes| Death by starvation. Will add anything else that pops up along the way.

Logically, Clara knows that it's something close to a miracle that Alex has lasted as long as he has in the arena. She isn't an idiot, after all, and is well aware of the fact that there was a reason why, back at home, he had to spend his nights at the lab instead of at home. That it wasn't just whatever they had done to him that had kept him away from her night after night. That his basic maintenance is more than just checking to make sure he doesn't have any screws loose. Dr. Norton never told her exactly it entailed, but had made sure to make her completely aware of the fact that, once Alex was home, he would have to be at the lab every night to run through the basic protocols to keep him well.

She doesn't know what those basic protocols even are, but the fact that Alex hasn't had them in weeks explains why he's in such bad shape at this point. Like the fact that she woke up this morning to find him sitting against a wall, mostly unable to move.

Maybe it's wrong and selfish of her, but the moment she realized what was probably happening, she made an excuse about looking for something, she can't even remember what, and retreated upstairs. There are lots of things she knows she can endure, like being alone or putting up a strong front, but she knows she can't handle watching him die. Even if she knows that she isn't really losing him this time.

And even though she knows she'll probably wind up downstairs eventually because she can't bear the thought of him going through this alone, at the very least she needs a little bit of time to herself to silently cry it out so Alex doesn't see (and she fully acknowledges the fact that it's ridiculous that they've been together for years and she still hates to let him see her cry, but for some reason makes her more than a little self-conscious). It's only after the last of the tears (and the few sobs she couldn't keep back) peter out that she finally gives herself a task: finding a jacket to replace the one she ruined. If she finds one, then great, she can go downstairs and totally deny that she was doing anything other than searching and she has proof of it and if she doesn't...she'll still deny it.

She's found, over the past few months, that she might just be the queen of denial.

After some searching and kicking up enough dust to have a decent explanation for her puffy, red eyes, she finds a leather bomber jacket. It's too big for her and completely unflattering and she can't bring herself to care, because finding it means that now she doesn't have an excuse to stay upstairs.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Clara makes her way down the stairs, cocooned in the oversized jacket, almost hoping that he's already gone and feeling like a terrible person for wanting that, even though it would probably be the best thing for him at this point. She walks into the living room that's been serving as their base of operations since they got here and sits down next to him. “How are you feeling?” It's a stupid question, to say the least, but it's the only thing she can think of asking at the moment.

no subject

At first Alex entertained the idea of hiding the symptoms. He'd tried to eat some of the food the sponsors sent him and he's not sure where it went, if it's chewed up somewhere in what might look like an engine block. All he knows is it didn't come out, it sure as hell didn't give him that boost of energy he as hoping it would. Same went with the few gulps of water. He's still left thirsty and hungry and feeling more and more drained by each passing day. At night he can't sleep. Like physically can't sleep: he sits against the wall while Clara eventually doses off, feeling exhaustion pressing in on him. Sometimes he imagines it pressing into the folds of his brain. Then he realizes it's morning already, the fog is still there, and Clara's been asking him a question and he only stares blankly at her.

That's the part where he suspects he's completely and utterly fucked.

Eventually there comes the day where he can't...move. Alex doesn't have in it in him. The weird part is isn't doesn't really hurt at this point. The tips of his hand felt cold but he can't place if that was yesterday or a week ago. He should be worrying about making sure Clara survives another week, working on the windows barricades that the things out there keep attacking. They're running out of wood.

It takes him a long moment for Alex to realize Clara's talking again, his head turning toward her with a tortured squeal of some part that needed critical maintenance a week ago. He mulls over the question. His HUD helpfully tells him he's not doing so good, vitals wise. Something about possible cardiac arrest if he doesn't receive maintenance and glucose solutions. His eyes focus on his wife.

"Tired," Alex says, sounding almost bored. It's the first time he's actually felt like he could doze off since he woke up in this chassis. His voice slurs. "...Sorry, not feeling it today."

no subject

It takes everything in Clara to not wince at the sound that comes from something in Alex's neck not working right (along with...well. Almost everything else at this point). There isn't really any reason why she should keep such a tight lid on herself at this point, considering they're both well aware of what's coming. Nonetheless, even if she feels like she's starting to come apart emotionally, Clara can't help but feel like she needs to put on a brave face and keep Alex from seeing just how scared she is of losing him again.

She can barely bring herself to meet his gaze, partially out of worry that she'll start crying again and partly because she doesn't want him to see how puffy and red her eyes are from her previous crying jag. Somehow she manages to with a slightly forced comforting smile on her face as she reaches out with her right hand for his left hand (mostly because the idea of holding his far-too-cold right hand makes her stomach twist in all the wrong ways).

"That's okay," Clara says with the most reassuring, comforting tone she can muster up for such a boldfaced lie, because this isn't okay. In fact it's the farthest thing from okay that she can think of, but right now isn't the time to dwell on that. She can do that later, once he's gone and she has to fend for herself. "I guess all those sleepless nights are finally catching up on you."

no subject

Alex doesn't answer at first and for a few long seconds it looks like he might have drifted away again. "I guess."

Instead of sounding relieved that he can at least manage sleep like a normal person, Alex sounds like it doesn't matter one way or another. The good new is he's not panicking, getting that look in his eye that says he knows they're in deep but he doesn't want to admit it to her face. The tight-lipped look he got when David had to go to the ER when he was little, when he heard about Officer Jacobs getting killed over a speeding ticket when he'd just talked to her yesterday. There's a kind of slackness to his face that Clara's probably only seen when he's asleep and she wonders if this is what he'll look like if (when?) he gets shot on the job like his friend.

Alex seems to have a hard time keeping his eyes open as he sits propped up against the wall. The graphene and titanium column standing in for his spine has locked thanks to a lubricant leak, which means he won't be getting up or slumping over anytime soon. His face has gone so pale that he looks less human, like his skin is pulled tight over a steel frame.

"What time is it?" By some miracle he manages to open his eyes, his voice creaking out in a whisper. He licks his lips absently. Something along his back, a stabilizer or something else, clicks furiously.

no subject

"I don't know," Clara says thickly, tries and fails to mask the emotions that are close to choking the words in her throat. "Morning or early afternoon? It's hard to tell." Generally she was good at being able to tell what time of day it was by the light outside the windows, but the windows are boarded up and she hasn't seen the sun since the arena started.

For the first time since Alex's health started to go downhill, Clara really looks at his face instead of just seeing what she wants to see. There's this little piece of denial she's been clinging to like it's a life raft in the middle of the ocean that maybe, just maybe, Alex would bounce back and be fine. And just from the way he looks, the little bit of air left in that mental life raft that's been just enough to keep it afloat is gone. He looks like hell. Not the worst she's seen him, true (that will always be how he looked when she ran outside after the car bomb went off or how he looked on the screen in the hospital as Dr. Norton read off a list of just how completely and utterly fucked Alex would be if she didn't accept OmniCorp's offer), but far worse than he looked almost any of the times he'd been sick or slightly hurt.

For a moment she almost lets go of his hand to reach up to run her fingers through his hair or rub his back or any of the things she had done the few times he ended up being stuck at home sick with the flu or whatever. The only reason she doesn't is it hits her that, no, none of those things would probably be any comfort to him now. She still isn't sure how much he can and can't feel these days and she's been too scared to ask, but she has a feeling that even if he can feel it, it probably wouldn't be the same. Instead, she reaches the hand up to cup his cheek.

She wants to lie to him and tell him that it's fine and she'll be here when he wakes up (though she has a gut feeling that this time he won't be waking up and that terrifies her more than almost anything else). It almost is what she says until something else comes to mind that isn't tangled up in a lie. "It's okay if you feel like you need to let go," she says in something that's closer to a whisper than anything else. "I promise that as soon as I'm out of here, I'll come find you."

And he's a goner

His listless nod says everything Alex can't, even when he stares at her with that dull look in his eyes. When he looks at Clara, he doesn't seem to recognize her at all.

The plus side is he doesn't die screaming.

His death is disappointing by the Capitol's standards. People had bet big on him because they saw "cop", "state of the art chassis" and assumed he would wipe the floor with the competition. They're used to big, brutal fights, flashy (if the Tribute is a Career and knows about playing the cameras). Surprisingly and shocking and enthralling if they're the next Katniss Everdeen. Alex, on the other hand, doesn't even go out with a whimper: he simply closes his eyes and quietly passes away in the middle of the night. He might have even looked like he was sleeping, if he wasn't propped up in the exact same rigid position she first found him in, the color to his skin faded, cheeks hollowed out.

Just a wrap up tag.

Clara wakes up far too early than what she's gotten used to in here. Or maybe it's just that she didn't sleep well. Either way, she's tired and the fact that she spent the night (and almost every night for the past couple weeks) in a nest made up of musty blankets and pillows doesn't help things. The first thing she notices is just how quiet the room is. Not that it isn't usually, but there's something almost eerie about the silence. It isn't right.

"You still with me, baby?" Clara asks groggily as she sits up and looks at him. And almost instantly realizes that, no, he isn't. He had looked bad the night before but the way he looks now is a gut punch. And the worst part is that she knew it was coming.

She doesn't cry. God knows she wants to, more than anything, but right now there are other things she has to do. She needs to get herself ready to leave since she isn't sure how many other tributes knew that they were here and how many of them would come here for her since she was an easy target now. Clara untangles herself from the blankets and quickly yanks her heavy boots on, followed by the jacket she had found the day before.

She doesn't have time to think about the fact that, if Carlos was wrong, then Alex might be gone for good. Or that this means she'll be grieving for him a third time. Or that she doesn't even know what the people running the show do with the bodies. All she has time to think about is that she needs to sling that backpack over her shoulders and run.

But before she does that, she takes one last moment to make sure that he's really gone, just in case she's wrong. The moment her hand touches his cheek, she knows that she's alone, both in the house and the arena. Somehow, despite all her heartache, she manages to mostly keep the tears at bay as she withdraws her hand from his cheek, double checks the room for anything she might have left behind, and then too calmly crosses the room, opens the door, and leaves.